


Collected Sherlock Drabbles/Ficlets

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU - John Works For Moriarty, Angst, Bleeding, Blow Jobs, Body Horror, But This Is Imaginary, Crack, Dancing, Dark John, Domestic Fluff, Don't Stop Til You Get Enough, Drabble Collection, Fight!lock, Fighting, Fighting Kink, Fluff, Headcanon, It's Too Fucking Dangerous, John's Dysfunctional Family, John's gun, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, More wall sex, Mountie!John, Mutual Masturbation, Never Try Breath Play, Post-Reichenbach, Punching, Rainy Saturday in 221B, Reichenfeels, Scars, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock's Secret Tattoo, Tattoos, Tumblr, Wall Sex, breath play, dark!john, homicidal John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-20 23:18:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2446739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of some headcanons, drabbles, and ficlets I've written for/on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Universe Gives Him Williams

No but listen: RCMP Mountie!John's horse is named William (John calls him Billy-m'boy). Mountie!John's first boyfriend's name was also William (went by Will). Mountie!John had a cat named William when he was growing up (Harry named it; John wanted to call it Shadow). When Mountie!John first meets Sherlock Holmes, he is compelled, of course, just look at the man, but the universe gives him Williams; he knows this by now. Then he asks for Sherlock's identification. . .


	2. Empathy

A close call during a case; John’s clothes caught fire and the part of his shirt and vest that weren’t burnt away were torn from him and tossed aside. As the EMTs are looking him over (people everywhere, it’s chaos, fire brigade dragging hoses about, police everywhere—Lestrade, Donovan…), Sherlock notices that John’s face is clenched, mouth downturned, he twists and slouches, crossing and recrossing his arms, trying to cover his scar, which he is so self-conscious about he only has sex with the lights out. Without a second thought, Sherlock strips off his suit jacket and buttons fly as he yanks open his shirt. He tosses the lot of it into a puddle, stands shivering in the cold beside John, his own heavily-scarred torso and back as exposed and visible and vulnerable as John’s. Neither of them needs to say a word.


	3. Flayed

Sometimes when John looks at Sherlock, really looks at him, he knows just how Sherlock will look lying closed-eyed, flayed open with pristine precision by John's scalpels, blue-white skin peeled back to reveal the thinnest layer of golden fat, so many shades of red, the cream-coloured birdbone. John dreams of pinning Sherlock to a board like a butterfly, exposed and open and silent. Silent. Silent.


	4. Assassins/Assignations

Jim's back against the rough cement wall, there in that tiny shadowed space, and John's hand is pressed across his mouth because Jim's a whiner and if they're overheard here it's definitely lights out good night for both of them. In John's left hand, his pistol flat against the wall beside Jim's head (his knuckles will come away bloodied) and he lets go of Jim’s mouth just long enough to run a hand roughly up Jim's thigh, wrapped around his waist as he fucks and fucks and _fucks_ him, swallowing his grunts into desperate, near-silent gasps.


	5. Tea and Sympathy

Sherlock brings John a mug of hot tea with a caramel-filled wafer cookie set atop it, so the tea will warm the biscuit, soften it a bit and make it melt. John looks at it, looks at Sherlock, and his eyes fill and his nose goes a bit red as he thanks him, for he has suddenly realised—through this simple act of love, a cookie warmed on a mug of tea—that Sherlock takes better care of him than his own mother ever did.


	6. Race You There

John and Sherlock face to face across the kitchen table, pale eyes narrowed, bright eyes wide and wild, staring, licking lips, tiny gulping gasps for breath, ah, now where are their hands? But of course! Boys will boys. A race to the finish, each urging the other on, a feedback loop of grunting, panting, Sunday paper in disarray on the tabletop. Fingers appear to be licked, palms spit into, then back at it. You won't win this one. Just you watch me.


	7. Throwing Down the Gauntlet: A Pre-Series-4 Sherlock Minisode

So the thing with Mary and baby Laser-Pointer Bean is all sorted and it’s been quite an adventure, just like the old days, eh?, detective and his blogger, Sherlock and John, running the damp night-time streets of London, handcuffs again, what are the chances? and christ I was sure you’d be shot… But we solved it, we’re safe, we’ve won.

Sherlock: I’ve come to realise life is short—

John: And you’re an idiot.

Sherlock: That I am, in every conceivable manner, I have been an idiot. I’ve waited far too long, been too cruel, too passive, too…everything…So. John Watson. Long story short, I love you. And, of course, obviously, despite recent intervening detours, you love me, so…

John: Oh, Sherlock…

Sherlock: So I don’t know, should we…have a party? What do real people do in this situation?

John: Sherlock, no.

Sherlock: No party, fine, I hate them anyway. We’ll just. I’ll get you a ring. We’ll just tell people we’re partners. No, they know we’re partners. Boyfriends sounds a bit adolescent for men of a certain age—

John: Sherlock. I’m over you.

Sherlock: [?!?!?!]

John: I did, I loved you. .so much. But you never loved me back, and then you died, and I grieved for you and…I moved on. I’m over you.

Sherlock: But.

John: I thought you…you know. Would have deduced it by now.

Sherlock: …always something. Something I miss.

John: [clears his throat, pats Sherlock’s shoulder.] I’m sorry.

Sherlock: [resolute] Challenge accepted.


	8. Lullabye

One night a few weeks after Sherlock's funeral, John had a few too many (usual for him, now, even though it didn't help, couldn't numb him, not really), and staggered in the dark, coat hanging open despite the cold, smashed the lock on the cemetery gate with a rock and slid inside. By the time he got to Sherlock's grave he was stumbling, half-crawling, from the drink and the gut-aching weeping he couldn't hold in anymore, and he lay down on Sherlock's grave as if it were his own, cold bed.


End file.
